Nostalgia for African Strongmen and the Global Rise of Authoritarian Populism
The legacy of African strongmen is no longer confined to history books or state-sponsored museums. In today’s rapidly shifting political landscapes, particularly across developing democracies, the mythos of figures like Idi Amin and Muammar Gaddafi is being reinterpreted by a new generation disillusioned with global inequality and ineffective governance. This authoritarian nostalgia is not rooted in ignorance of the past; rather, it emerges from a conscious reevaluation of what these strongmen symbolized—national sovereignty, economic independence, and visible leadership. While their reigns were marked by undeniable violence and human rights violations, they also embodied a form of state power that many feel is lacking in contemporary leaders. As political institutions around the world continue to erode under the weight of neoliberalism and foreign debt, the desire for bold, unapologetic leadership resurfaces—not as a regression, but as a critique of the existing world order
Populist Leaders in Africa and the West: A Dangerous Convergence
The rise of populist leaders in Africa and their Western counterparts like Donald Trump, Jair Bolsonaro, and Giorgia Meloni reveals unsettling similarities. All emphasize nationalism, vilify outsiders, and promote an “us vs. them” narrative to mobilize support. However, what makes the African context unique is the long-standing familiarity with military rule, colonial trauma, and revolutionary rhetoric. In this environment, populism blends seamlessly with strongman politics, creating a potent cocktail of charisma, identity politics, and state propaganda. By analyzing these patterns, it becomes evident that the admiration for African strongmen is not merely a nostalgic indulgence—it’s part of a larger global phenomenon in which frustrated populations turn to authoritarian figures as both saviors and symbols of defiance. When Trump echoes similar language or tactics, the line between global South and North authoritarianism begins to blur.
The Globalization of Authoritarian Narratives Through Media and Memory
In the digital age, the legacies of African dictators and Western strongmen are disseminated not only through academic discourse or state propaganda, but through viral media, memes, and transnational storytelling. Trevor Noah’s comedic comparison of Trump and African dictators exemplifies this shift—what once served as satire now provides a lens through which people question the very structure of global democracy. Social media platforms like TikTok and YouTube amplify selective narratives, enabling young users from Kampala to Kansas to romanticize authoritarian figures and their so-called achievements. This process of global mythmaking, fed by algorithms and disenchantment, reshapes how historical memory operates. In turn, global authoritarianism becomes less a distant political threat and more a normalized mode of leadership for many who feel left behind. Without alternative narratives that address inequality and power, strongman nostalgia may continue to find fertile ground—across borders, continents, and generations.
The phenomenon of nostalgia for African strongmen has increasingly become a lens through which we can analyze the global appeal of authoritarian populism. As leaders like Donald Trump rise in Western democracies, they often employ rhetoric and behavior reminiscent of infamous African dictators. This article delves deeply into the socio-political landscape of Uganda and the United States to explore how authoritarian nostalgia is shaping contemporary political identities
One pivotal moment that encapsulated this bizarre global political crossover occurred in 2016 during Donald Trump’s first U.S. presidential campaign. South African comedian Trevor Noah quipped that Trump was “the first African president of the United States,” drawing bold parallels between Trump’s public persona and African dictators such as Uganda’s Idi Amin, Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi, and Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe. Through satirical segments on The Daily Show, Noah highlighted their shared traits: grandiose claims of genius, relentless nationalism, and inflammatory rhetoric directed at outsiders. These jokes resonated deeply with Western liberal audiences who found the mere comparison absurd and, thus, hilarious.
However, the very fact that such a comparison was considered comedic points to a troubling underestimation of the seriousness of Trump’s campaign. When Trump won the presidency, the laughter quickly turned into confusion and fear. Many liberals refused to accept the results, clinging to the belief that Trump’s presidency was merely an aberration in American political history. Bumper stickers reading “Not My President” and the symbolic wearing of safety pins were attempts to soothe political wounds, but they failed to change the political reality. For many observers, especially those from regions like Africa where authoritarianism is not just historical but ongoing, this American crisis felt oddly familiar.
During this same period—from 2017 through 2020—I conducted extensive fieldwork in Uganda, specifically in Kampala and the northern region of Karamoja. Although my initial research focused on kinship and ethnicity, I could not ignore the political undercurrents around me. As an Asian American observing my own country flirt with authoritarianism, I became attuned to the expressions of political longing and frustration voiced by ordinary Ugandans—particularly among the young, male boda boda drivers who navigated the streets of Kampala on motorbike taxis.
African strongmen These boda boda drivers often displayed images of Idi Amin and Muammar Gaddafi on their motorcycles, helmets, and even on patches sewn into their clothing. These images weren’t just decorative—they symbolized a deeper yearning for leadership perceived as strong, decisive, and patriotic. Most of these young men were born after the reigns of Amin and Gaddafi, yet they spoke of these figures with reverence. Despite knowing about the violent legacies associated with these men, many boda drivers highlighted their anti-colonial messaging, economic nationalism, and decisive action as virtues sorely missing in today’s leadership.
African strongmen This form of authoritarian nostalgia wasn’t rooted in ignorance but in disillusionment. After nearly four decades of rule under President Yoweri Museveni, many Ugandans—particularly the young and economically disenfranchised—were seeking radical alternatives. They saw in Amin and Gaddafi figures who stood up against global powers and put their nations first, no matter the cost. One boda driver noted how Gaddafi provided milk on doorsteps daily, ensuring that no one went hungry. Another lauded Amin’s expulsion of Asians in 1972, interpreting it not as xenophobia but as a patriotic effort to reclaim Uganda’s economy from foreign control.
Back in the United States, similar narratives were emerging around Trump. Despite his polarizing and frequently offensive rhetoric, Trump was admired by many for his “America First” stance, promises to expel undocumented immigrants, and attempts to renegotiate trade deals. Like the Ugandan drivers admiring Amin, Trump’s base felt that the status quo had failed them and sought a leader willing to upend it. While liberal commentators focused on Trump’s threats to democracy, his supporters often focused on his promises to protect American workers and challenge global elites.
In 2020, Joe Biden’s victory over Trump brought a brief sense of relief to liberal America. The “aberration theory” was revived—many believed the U.S. had corrected its course. However, the 2024 election cycle revealed just how persistent these authoritarian tendencies were. With Biden stepping aside and Kamala Harris taking the Democratic mantle, Trump surged once more in popularity, proposing populist policies such as eliminating taxes on tips and overtime. Harris, meanwhile, stressed “decency” and a return to normalcy—rhetoric that resonated more with elites than working-class Americans.
The situation in Europe further underscores this global shift. Right-wing populists such as Giorgia Meloni in Italy and Marine Le Pen in France have gained traction, often echoing the same ethno-nationalist and protectionist rhetoric popularized by Trump. To dismiss these leaders as merely ridiculous is to ignore the economic despair, racial anxieties, and institutional failures that fuel their rise. Offering political decency without addressing material concerns is a losing strategy—as both Western liberals and African centrists are increasingly discovering.
The strongmen nostalgia in Africa thus becomes a valuable analytical framework for understanding political shifts beyond the continent. It challenges Western exceptionalism and reminds us that political frustrations transcend national borders. The reverence young Ugandans have for Amin or Gaddafi is not unlike the admiration many Americans hold for Trump. Both stem from disenchantment with neoliberalism, inequality, and a sense of national decline.
Moreover, mocking these sentiments—as Trevor Noah once did—no longer feels sufficient. Laughter may expose absurdity, but it does little to address underlying grievances. If politicians and policymakers fail to offer meaningful alternatives, then nostalgia for strongmen will continue to grow—whether in Kampala or Kansas.
As such, the future of democracy—both in Africa and the West—may depend less on ridiculing authoritarian figures and more on understanding and addressing the social and economic conditions that give them power. Rather than dismiss young Ugandans’ admiration for Amin as ignorance, we must see it as a desperate call for leadership that delivers results. Likewise, Trump’s popularity should compel American politicians to rethink their approach to governance.
In the final analysis, authoritarian nostalgia is a political reality we must reckon with. Whether on the streets of Kampala or in the voting booths of rural America, the desire for strong, uncompromising leadership reveals widespread dissatisfaction with existing political structures. The time has come to listen—seriously and empathetically—to those who admire the likes of Amin, Gaddafi, or Trump, not to validate their views, but to understand the voids those leaders appear to fill.
